


symphony no. 7

by perissologist



Series: a little less conversation [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: “Happy to be back in the nest?”Dick smirks on instinct at the sound of that voice. He doesn’t have to turn to become fully aware of the presence approaching his shoulder, tall and solid behind him. “Again with the bird metaphors, M?”M chuckles, deep and a little wicked. “They just suit you so well, Grayson, you know I can’t resist.”





	

Returning to the Foundation Theater after eleven months of rehearsing in unfamiliar studios around the world feels like slipping back into a well-worn jacket, like curling up in a favorite blanket, like the most final form of coming home. Dick drops his duffle in the wings and gives himself a moment to take in the Grand Auditorium. The stage lights are on, but the rows and rows of velvet brocade seats, the private balconies, the tech booth are all dark; still, he can make out the faint gleam of the gold filigree that lines every edge and corner, the shadowy glitter of the chandelier overhead, the muted colors of the elaborate tapestry that decorates the ceiling in thousands of panes of stained glass. The place is one enormous display of decadent artistry, built on old money; it’s the epitome of excessive, and the epitome of beautiful. Dick has loved it since he was fourteen years old.

 

“Happy to be back in the nest?”

 

Dick smirks on instinct at the sound of that voice. He doesn’t have to turn to become fully aware of the presence approaching his shoulder, tall and solid behind him. “Again with the bird metaphors, M?”

 

M chuckles, deep and a little wicked. “They just suit you so well, Grayson, you know I can’t resist.” 

 

“Mm.” Dick does turn then, looking up to meet M’s gaze. “It is good to be back,” he admits. “Coming back to a full house for our homecoming show was nice, but…” He inhales, breathing in the familiar whiffs of aged wood, hot lights, powdered chalk. “There’s something special about a theater when it’s empty.”

 

M grins. “You’re a sentimental one, aren’t you, Grayson?”

 

Dick shrugs, smiling faintly. “Guilty.”

 

The grin turns a little shark-like. “Sentimental enough that you won’t leave it all behind for something better?”

 

Dick’s smile falls. “What?”

 

M barks out a laugh. “Please, Grayson, you think you’re subtle?” When Dick doesn’t answer, he just shakes his head in mock reproach, mouth curling. “Diana’s reviewing the contracts at the end of the month. You should tell her soon if you’re not planning to renew.”

 

Dick glares at him. “You know, we were almost having a moment.”

 

M snorts. “We all know that it isn't my _moments_ that you like me for, Grayson.” He turns, crossing the stage to where the speakers are set up. “You all stretched out?”

 

Dick huffs, irritation prickling under his skin, but relents anyways. He knows by now that pushing it won’t do him any good: When M decides that he’s done talking about something, that’s the end of it. “Yeah, I warmed up before you got here.”

 

“Good.” M turns up the music, then leans over to flick a switch on the expansive control board set into the wall. Two rigs drop down from the ceiling, each already set up with its own double-lengths of pale blue silk. “Shall we?” 

 

This choreography is relatively new, but the instant Dick steps forward and grasps a silk in each hand, something familiar settles around them—after all, the trust is always the same. The piece that pours out of the speakers is classic Beethoven: Deep and slow and deliberate, heavy strokes of cello etching out a grandiose, dramatic mood that’s touched with just a little darkness. Dick inhales, feeling himself shift into focus, and begins to methodically wind the silks around his forearms. “How did you know I was thinking about leaving?” 

 

M has started circling Dick, eyeing his wrappings. “Your body language is about as hard to read as an open book, Grayson,” he says. “A distinct lack of enthusiasm for Lyta Themyscira’s rousing speeches about her five-year plan for the company, the guilty twitching every time Diana talked about keeping us paired through 2017, the relief on your face when you finally worked up the courage to tell her that you were retiring from the tour circuit—” He pauses for a moment, smirks. “Plus, you probably shouldn’t leave the browser on your laptop open to ‘dance jobs in Gotham,’ if you’re aiming for a subtle exit.”

 

Dick closes his hands into fists and pulls, hard, using the tension to swing his legs upwards. He keeps his arms taught to hold the position, body inverted and held tight against the silks. “Are you going to tell her?” The pitch of the cellos slides a half-note higher, and he slowly spreads his legs, knees locked and toes pointed for a flawless upside-down split.

 

“Diana?” M snorts as he paces closer, placing the flat of his palm against Dick’s chest. As a regal, measured melody begins to sing over the refrain, he walks forward with his hand pressed to Dick’s sternum, pushing him along in a slow, lazy circle. The weight of his touch is warm against Dick’s bare skin, rough with the callouses that trace his fingers. “No, that one’s all yours, pretty bird. Besides, I don’t usually make a habit of spilling other people’s private business—not unless it benefits me, anyway.”

 

Dick hums, unsure if he should feel grateful that M is meeting what anyone else might consider to be the most common threshold of decency. After a beat, he settles on a wry “Gracious of you,” if only for the amused glitter of the eyes that M sends his way.

 

“Only for you, Grayson,” he purrs, and somehow his smirk seems even more devilish when Dick is seeing it upside-down.

 

M begins to push with more force, the bare curve of his bicep flexing in Dick’s peripheral vision, and Dick inhales slowly, keeping his muscles locked in anticipation of what comes next. As the melody builds, violins climbing high in an operatic claim for attention, M releases him, quickly stepping back into the center of Dick’s range of motion to allow Dick to swing outwards. He arcs past the edge of the stage in a flutter of blue silk and rotates twice around the rig to the soaring harmony, reveling in the weightlessness of the swing, chest ballooning with contentment. M waits, watching, poised and ready—then the timpani breaks in, sounding in deep, dramatic beats over the strings, and he takes a running start before leaping up and latching onto the second set of silks, effortlessly hoisting himself up to become a counterweight to Dick’s movement. They circle twice more around each other, Dick still holding the inverted split, M with his legs swinging out behind him. 

 

The violins yield to a set of flutes that introduce a lighter, more playful melody, and Dick finally brings his legs back together and lets himself drop upright with a swift unwinding of one of the turns around his forearms. Right side-up again and still swinging in circles, he extracts one arm entirely from its silk so that he hangs just by the grip of his right hand, freeing the rest of his limbs to unfold outwards, then curl back in in time to the music, the movements imitating the graceful gestures of a plié. 

 

As the piece comes to an end, M slows until his feet touch the stage again. He jogs to a halt, shaking the silks from his arms as he goes, then strides forward and catches Dick around the midriff as he swings by. They spin together to dissipate Dick’s momentum, M wrapping one arm around the back of Dick’s thighs and sliding the other hand up Dick’s spine to cup him between the shoulderblades; as the cellos recede back into their slow, measured repeat, Dick releases his grip on the silk and drops down into M’s hold. They hold the pose while the flutes fade out, with M holding Dick aloft, pressed close and eyes locked together.

 

When M laughs, Dick can feel the vibrations of it in his ribs. “What a shame, Grayson,” he drawls. “I’m going to miss seeing you fly.”

 

He loosens his arms, letting Dick slide down his chest to land on his feet. Dick looks up at him and grins. “Careful there, M, or you’ll start to sound like the sentimental one.” He takes a step back, breathes in, allows some of the thick tension between them to recede in the widened space. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to suffer unnecessarily—I’m not gone yet.”

 

“No, but I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Both Dick and M start at the smooth, deep voice that comes out of the unlit parts of the theater, echoing faintly in the emptiness of the space. It’s only when a tall, silver-haired figured, dressed in a tailored navy suit, steps out of the shadows that Dick relaxes. “After all, doesn’t a bird always do better without a cage?”

 

“Slade.” Dick can’t hide his surprise as Slade makes his way up to the stage. “Why are you here?”

 

“Here to see you, actually,” Slade rumbles, lips quirking. He turns his good eye on M and gives him a steely smile. “Do you mind if I speak to Dick alone for a moment?”

 

Of all the people that Dick knows, M is one of the few who has never been intimidated by Slade—the person, or the name. He doesn’t respond immediately to Slade’s request, just stares him down for what feels like an eternity, expression utterly impenetrable—but just as Dick is about to get nervous, he flashes a sudden smile, full of teeth. 

 

“Of course not, Mr. Wilson,” he says, voice dripping with sardonic cordiality. “Anything for the Company’s favorite donor.”

 

Dick winces, but Slade doesn’t seem anything other than mildly amused. M turns to leave, but pauses first at Dick’s side, meeting his eyes. “You good here?”

 

Dick nods. “Yeah, I’m alright. Talk to you later?”

 

M grunts his acknowledgement and brushes past him, heading for the exit that leads to the corridor outside. Dick waits until he’s disappeared behind the curtain before walking forward to the edge of the stage. “What are you really doing here, Slade?”

 

Slade’s eye glitters at him, pale blue and clear as ice. “Do I need a reason to visit my favorite dancer in the Company?” He extracts one hand from his pocket and offers it up. “Come down here.”

 

Dick obliges, slipping his palm into Slade’s larger, more calloused one and using it to steady himself as he hops down into the pit. He looks up at Slade and grins. “Miss me?”

 

Slade hums, reaching up to brush the back of his fingers against Dick’s cheek. “I did. I trust the tour went well?”

 

“Yeah, it was amazing.” Dick smiles. “You were right about Prague: It _is_ the most underrated city in Europe.”

 

Slade chuckles his appreciation. “We’ll have to visit it together sometime.”

 

Dick raises a brow. “Wow—I’ve been back for less than a week and you’re already bribing me with transatlantic trips?” His smile turns a little sharp. “You must want something.”

 

Slade just looks at him for a moment, considering; then he relents. “I admit I do have another motive for coming to see you today.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit and brings out a sealed envelope, stamped with the logo for DS Enterprises. “This is for you.”

 

Dick frowns, wary, but accepts the envelope nonetheless, carefully tearing it open to pull out the folded sheaths of paper inside. He smooths them out and begins to scan the first page; he gets as far as the third clause before his eyes go wide with realization. He looks up at Slade, accusing. “What is this?”

 

“An offer,” Slade says, calmly. 

 

“A _job_ offer,” Dick says. 

 

“Yes,” Slade agrees. “For if you ever do decide to terminate your contract with the Company.”

 

Dick stares at him, a chill seeping through him. “How do you know about that?” _Just how many fucking people know?_

 

“I’ve known you for years, Richard,” Slade reminds him, almost gentle. “You’ll find it difficult to hide anything from me.” He nods down to Dick’s hands. “I promise you that you won’t find a better offer than the one I’m giving you.”

 

Dick looks uneasily back down at the papers. “You want me to be your—your company lap dog.”

 

Slade snorts. “Hardly, m’dear,” he replies, dry. “You’d be a performer, just as you’ve always been; only, with this contract, you would perform exclusively at events hosted by DS Enterprises and its partner organizations. International conventions, corporate galas, charity balls—the headline for all the events affiliated with the company would be yours. You’d be performing in front of some of the most influential people in our world, Dick; you’d never want for a gig again. Plus, you’d have your pick of backup dancers, choreography, costumes, equipment, technology—anything you want. And between events”—he reaches forward and flips to the second page of the document—“you can spend your free time in any of the dozens of penthouses and lofts the company owns in Jump City, free of charge: Your housing expenses are included as part of your employee benefits package.” 

 

“I—” Dick stutters, lost for words. “Why is it so— _much?_ I’m just a dancer, and this—” He flips to his third page and feels something flip inside him at the yearly salary printed at the bottom. “Fuck, that’s a really big number—”

 

“The company knows a good asset when they see one, Dick,” Slade says. Dick feels his gaze on him like a physical weight, somehow stifling and intoxicating at the same time. “No matter the field.”

 

Dick swallows. “Slade, this is…generous. Too generous.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know if this is what I want. I don’t know if I could leave Gotham again, and besides, performing for the public is…kind of my thing.” He chews on his lip. “Or at least, it always has been.”

 

Slade hums. “Take some time to think it over,” he suggests, smooth. “The offer is always open.”

 

Dick hesitates. It _is_ a good deal. A really good deal. “I will.” He scrapes together a rough smile. “Thank you for this.”

 

“Of course, Dick.” Next to the dark fabric of his eyepatch, Slade’s one eye seems almost inhumanly brilliant, glittering with something deep and intent that Dick has never quite been able to define. “Anything for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> *chants* dick's! harem! of! morally! ambiguous! older! men! dick's! harem! of! morally! ambiguous! older! men! 
> 
> anyways, that being said--things, as they tend to do around here, continue to happen! this one here is a pretty major plot point, and i wanted to lay it down before moving on to more story development. i don't have many more definite plot events planned out for right now, so i'll probably be writing just story stuff for a while? who knows, as i always tell you guys i am Flying By The Seat Of My Pants and just hoping that it all comes out in one coherent story :') 
> 
> as always, i Live for you guys, so please leave a comment and/or come talk to me at perissologist.tumblr.com/ask! the current hot topic is dick's love for carly rae jepsen--you can find that whole lovely mess under perissologist.tumblr.com/fic-tag. come ask me questions, tell me your headcanons, or ***give me prompts***, i love hearing from you all


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